


Collaborative Postulation

by driedflowers



Series: Post-finale Frankie/Britta [2]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedflowers/pseuds/driedflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pierce was right about one thing. <em>I mean, he wasn’t exactly right. He was a little right. Like if you got coke instead of pepsi, except instead of two sodas that taste exactly the same, it’s like getting bacon instead of soy hot dogs. Meat is murder, you guys! Look it up!</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Collaborative Postulation

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank Sophie once again.
> 
> Also, you may notice this is in a series. You should read the first one first, if you haven't already. I guess that goes without saying.

“Pierce may have been right about one thing,” Britta says, standing up in her place at the table.

“Earnoculars are cool, and you’re getting some,” Jeff says, texting and making an effort to look bored.

“Urbana Champaign is a college, not a drag queen,” the dean scoffs.

“Actually...” Frankie starts to correct him, but decides it’s not worth it. She never really contributes to the conversation when they talk about Pierce, or Troy, or Shirley. Trying to blend in only makes her feel more like an outsider.

Jeff puts down his phone. “Lesotho was part of the Soviet Union.”

“People actually file their taxes.” Chang twirls his finger next to his ear. “Pierce was off his rocker, right?”

“Uh, Chang?” Jeff says. “Have you ever filed your taxes?”

“Totally. Loads of times. April twenty-fifth, every six years, on the dot.”

Britta’s still standing, trying to keep the conversation focused on her. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly right. He was a little right. Like if you got coke instead of pepsi, except instead of two sodas that taste exactly the same, it’s like getting bacon instead of soy hot dogs. Meat is murder, you guys! Look it up!”

Unsurprisingly, Britta’s analogy doesn’t help. They keep guessing, to no avail.

“NASA stands for North American Space Astronauts.”

“Ghosts can’t go through doors, and fire can.” Chang rolls his eyes.

“You guys, it’s something about _me_ ,” Britta says.

Something clicks in Frankie’s head, and it finally feels like she’s in on something the rest of them aren’t. She gives Britta a questioning look, and Britta nods, almost imperceptibly.

“You’re a lesbian,” Jeff guesses, clearly not meaning it.

Britta points at him with both index fingers and her face lights up. Jeff’s eyebrows nearly shoot into his hair (or they would, if he had anything resembling a normal hairline), but Britta just keeps gesturing at him like they’re playing charades: _more, you’re really close, keep guessing!_

“Ha! I knew I couldn’t be bad at sex. You just don’t like guys.”

Britta sighs disgustedly. “Nope, you’re still awful at sex. I’m bisexual. You guys are hopeless.”

“The gays are taking over the group!” Chang shouts immediately. “The dean, Britta, Frankie’s probably a lesbian. Now our pilot’s _never_ going to get picked up!”

So Britta didn’t tell the group that Frankie’s gay. Huh.

“Chang, you told us you were gay two weeks ago,” Jeff says. “In this very room.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Frankie is surprised, to be honest, and touched. It doesn’t entirely make up for the betting pool, but she’s starting to consider forgiveness.

Frankie catches Britta’s arm on their way out of the study room. She tries her hardest not to sound like a social worker in a bad movie. “Hey. Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Britta says, and they walk over to the couch and sit down.

“I appreciate your discretion,” Frankie says. It’s easier to drift into impersonal, professional language when she lets people get too close. It’s normally enough to push them away, but Britta is still here.

“I just figured, it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Britta puts her hand on Frankie’s shoulder. Frankie stares at it, awkwardly, for a second, and then pats it. Probably even more awkwardly. But Britta doesn’t seem fazed. She’s smiling. And Frankie hasn’t done this in years, but it feels like she might be leaning in.

“If we’re going to engage in such ‘unprofessional’ conduct, I’m going to have to stop talking like a robot administrator,” she mutters to the floor.

Britta catches her face and turns it back up. “I like it,” she says, softly.

She wants to kiss Britta right now, she wants to live in the moment, but she can’t. She never can. Frankie is always thinking about the future, about the consequences, and maybe that’s part of the problem.

“You don’t think I’m boring?”

“No," Britta says. "Not _bad_ boring. Things have been pretty crazy in the last few years. Actually, ever since I dropped out of high school. Maybe since that birthday party with the man in the dinosaur costume... Anyway, I could use a little stability in my life.”

It fits so perfectly with the trope that even someone who hasn’t watched a movie in ten years can see it. Britta will teach her to loosen up, and Frankie will help Britta tone things down. _It’s been done to death_ , she can almost hear Abed saying, but this is life, not TV. It doesn’t have to be groundbreaking, it just has to work. And she thinks it will.

Britta has clearly begun to influence her already. Instead of saying anything else, Frankie leans in.

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever stop referencing the betting pool?


End file.
